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On no brooks and branches, do birds perch themselves, Dead on painted walls and by ashes of their cigarettes, Art in the dust, and in the scent of his perfume,
By Rana Ansar 3 years ago in Poets
I go back to our favourite restaurant to hold a séance. I drink my tea, burning my tongue, hurrying to see what lies at the bottom.
Lettered on these walls are the pain I feel in my heart Scribbled on these palms are the tortures I give myself My soul yearns to be touched
In the quarter moon years, I discovered Paz as a quartet, Of life, pus, milk and death. Littered between temple and morgue of everyday life,
A vase once held matter. It fell and broke into many pieces. Painfully hard, to put this beautiful vase back together again.
I look ahead of time; A time when I would look back again. And find you annoyed, irritated yet there. Always be there to bear my ranting.
Never in a million years Would the glowing balls of heavenly skies Ever conspire together For a surreal meeting Upon the lighthouse
Thank you mama For the love you have given me, For the first day I came into this world, Your gentle hands were there to hold me,
You tell me that you're hopeless, You want your life less than your death, But if you jumped into a pool right now, I know you'd hold your breath,
will tell my daughter to run As fast as she can When someone asks her to trust them will tell her to not believe when they praise her on her appearance
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils;
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.